


Taken By The Flood

by johnsarmylady



Series: Helikean [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Other-worldly John, mentions of snuff-sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-01
Updated: 2014-04-01
Packaged: 2018-01-17 19:59:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1400614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnsarmylady/pseuds/johnsarmylady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes a murder, a sexual deviant, and a river in flood to show Sherlock that his 'ordinary' flatmate is maybe not so ordinary after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taken By The Flood

Out of the corner of his eye he watched as John stood at the edge of the crime scene – well wrapped up against the endless rain that had battered London these past weeks, yet his smiling face was turned up as if to catch every precious drop of water.

Then a thought occurred to him.

It may just have been because they were as different as chalk and cheese – he would spend a scant five minutes in the shower (that was when he bothered to shower), yet he noticed John would get up probably an hour earlier than he needed to in order to luxuriate under the warm water spray.

John loved water; even pollution-filled London rainwater.

But Sherlock didn’t have time for these musings – there was work to be done.

“I’d say she was strangled as she was sexually assaulted, although not here,” he stepped away from the naked body. “John? Your opinion please.”

John stepped up, swiftly pulling off his leather gloves and donning a pair of latex gloves that Sally Donovan handed to him. Sherlock frowned. John didn’t normally wear gloves. He filed it away for now as he listened to his flatmate speaking.

“….however there are grazes on the upper part of her buttocks here…” he had partially rolled her over and was indicating two raw patches “…leads me to think she was indoors, on a carpet. This looks like carpet burn.”

“And you would know.” Anderson said sneeringly.

John just smiled as he caught Donovan’s anguished look.

“Not me Anderson,” he said, “but I think Sherlock here spotted similar marks on Sally’s knees a while back.”

Sherlock’s eyes glinted with ill-supressed mirth, yet he turned away from them and addressed Lestrade.

“You might want to check the CCTV in the vicinity, and look back into reports from local prostitutes of men who have tried to strangle them while having sex.”

“You think this was a sex game gone wrong?”

“No Lestrade, I think this was a sex game taken to the ultimate limits.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Come along John.”

“Where are you going?” Lestrade looked up from his notebook.

“To see a man about kinky sex.” Sherlock waggled his eyebrows at the Detective Inspector, and then walked away.

xXx

“Thanks mate.” John said as he caught up to his lanky flatmate. “Why not give them another reason to think we’re a couple?”

“I said nothing about us.” Sherlock countered, raising his hand to hail a passing cab. “Putney Bridge, south bank.” He directed the driver as they climbed in.

“You didn’t have to, git!” the other man grimaced. “And who are we going to see?”

“One of my contacts – an ex-pimp who lost a couple of his girls to Jack Borden.

“What, the serial killer who was into kinky sex and necrophilia?” John was aghast. “Were you…”

“Instrumental in getting him arrested, yes. The man we’re going to see was once Borden’s business partner. He was so disgusted when he realised what was going on, he set up a series of refuges for girls making a living on the streets – places of safety.”

“Right, I’d heard there were a few around – didn’t realise they were connected though.”

As the cab pulled up on the South Bank Sherlock leapt out, leaving John to pay as usual before hurrying after the swiftly disappearing detective.

xXx

The man they were here to see was currently walking round, talking to the girls and making sure they were not only okay, but aware of where the nearest shelter was. He looked somewhat out of place, with his bald, tattooed head and his long leather trench coat, but he was a familiar sight to the working girls, and they were not unhappy to see him there.

The two friends waited a little way away, biding their time, and Sherlock noticed once more that John had turned his face up to the sky and the steadily falling rain.

Glancing away from the look on John’s face, a look that could almost be described as ecstasy, Sherlock noticed how high the Thames was, flowing faster than usual, a murky churning mess. Turning up his collar against the wind he tried not to wonder too much about his companion.

xXx

John had moved into 221B Baker Street less than six months ago; and in that short time had managed to skew every fact that Sherlock thought he knew about the man.

Soldier and Doctor, he was amazingly au fait with Sherlock twisting the law to suit himself, and unusually patient with his lack of manners, and after shooting Jeff Hope to save the consulting detective’s life the younger man was forced to consider his new flatmate a little more closely.

He noticed during their shared evening at the Chinese Circus that, despite declaring that he was trying to ‘get off’ with Dr Sarah Sawyer, his attempts were half-hearted, almost as if he was doing it for show.

His musings were interrupted by the crunch of gravel as the ex-pimp approached.

“Mr Holmes.” He said his voice soft and a little wary. “What brings you here on such an evening?”

“Your friends here.” Sherlock indicated with a tilt of his chin the girls “Can we talk?”

“What do you want from them? They don’t give their trust easily.” Thrusting his hands deep into the pockets of his coat, the cold blue eyes flicked between the consulting detective and the ex-army doctor.

John stepped up beside his flatmate, but stayed silent as Sherlock explained about the latest dead body. He watched as the blood drained from the other man’s face and his eyes narrowed.

“Not Borden?”

“No, he’s still tucked up safely in Broadmoor. However someone else is practicing his foul art.”

“And you want….?”

“I want you to make sure the girls are aware, keep them safe, and if any of them are approached for anything other than straight sex tell them to refuse, and ask them to let you or me know as soon as possible – the more information they can give us the quicker we can assure their safety.”

The tattooed head nodded, and he looked around in the thickening gloom.

“Walk with me,” he said. “One of the girls that work the Common came to the shelter recently with tales of attempted strangulation.”

“Then she was lucky to get away.” John muttered under his breath.

“Very.” Came the snapped response.

xXx

They heard the scream as they entered the common, and as one the three men ran towards the sound.

The two taller men crossed the common faster than John, leaving him to stumble across the uneven ground after them.

Seeing retribution approaching, the man let go of the screaming, struggling woman, and pulling his trousers up started to run.

“Get the girl!” Sherlock yelled as he flung himself towards the perpetrator.

John watched the ex-pimp catch the girl and wrench the rope from around her neck, then turned his head to look for Sherlock – just as he and the perpetrator slipped on the waterlogged grass and fell headfirst into the swollen brook.

“Sherlock!” John skidded to a halt and started pulling off his jacket, jumper and boots as he yelled back to the other man. “What is that? Where does it go?”

“Beverley Brook, it flows into the Thames. He’ll be drowned.”

“Not if I can fucking help it!” John snarled, wading waist deep into the water then diving under the surface…..

xXx

As they slipped Sherlock felt his opponent grab onto the front of his Belstaff, heard his scream in his ear, and barely had time to take a deep breath before plunging into the flooding and fast flowing water.

The current dragged them both down, pulling them apart – for which Sherlock was momentarily grateful – but as he was buffeted and dragged by the current as the brook ran headlong towards the Thames, he found himself unable to shed the heavy woollen garment that was pulling him further down.

He tried to kick for the surface, but the water was too fast, the coat far too heavy, and he was tiring fast when suddenly hands grabbed at the front of his coat once more.

Sherlock struggled, trying to get away, but then the hands cupped his face and a pair of soft warm lips pressed against his, parting them and breathing air into him. The water was too murky for him to open his eyes, but he felt a face pressed close to his and heard a voice telling him to relax.

As another breath was forced into his lungs he felt a solid body undulating against him, pulling him close and pushing them both through the water. The sensation, along with the lips pressed against his set his skin tingling and his senses reeling, until he almost believed that this was what it felt like to die.

As the water rushed over them, the undulating body pressed closer, and then twisted so that Sherlock lay above him, and with a final rippling kick they broke the surface.

Gasping in the cold night air he felt himself being pulled up onto the steps on the north bank of the Thames, next to Putney Bridge.

“You bloody idiot.”

Sherlock looked up, shocked at the sound of John’s voice.

“You could have died!”

“John how….” He forced his voice out over chattering teeth.

“Long story, can we just get home and I’ll explain everything?” he tugged at Sherlock’s coat. “Lend me your coat, I need to be covered.” Looking into Sherlock’s face he begged “No questions now, please?”

With a million questions running around his brain, Sherlock nodded and dragged his coat off, handing it to his flatmate. His breath stilled as he saw the hand that John held out to take the clothing from him, but he said nothing, pulling himself to his feet and tiredly climbing the steps to the road.

At the third attempt he found a cabbie that would take them, dripping wet as they were, for a premium fare, and on the journey to Baker Street Sherlock watched as John kept himself carefully covered by the oversized coat.

xXx

“What happened out there?” Sherlock asked as they stood in the living room. His eyes slipped to John’s hands, but they looked the same as ever – slightly calloused soldier’s hands.

“You fell into the brook and got yourself swept away…”

“And you saved me, swimming along the brook, out into the Thames – no not just into the Thames but across the Thames, underwater, and breathed air into my lungs to keep me alive.” His voice dropped almost to a whisper. “Breathed air into my lungs more than once, yet you couldn’t have come up for air. So I’ll ask again, what happened?”

John turned away, laying Sherlock’s still sodden coat over the back of one of the kitchen chairs as he moved to put the kettle on.

He worked for a while in silence, and then as he carried the steaming cups into the living room he looked up into the younger man’s face and smiled.

“And now you’re wondering why I’ve made tea but not chased you to get in the shower and warm up.” Seeing his deduction confirmed in the widening of Sherlock’s eyes he smiled sadly and passed him his drink. “It’s all part and parcel of the explanation.”

Wrapping his hands around the hot mug John found he was suddenly unable to look at his flatmate.

“Donovan has got it wrong you know,” his voice was soft, and Sherlock had to strain to hear his words.

“She calls you a Freak, but she has no idea at all – it’s not you that’s the freak but me.”

“Explain.”

“Oh, as a scientist I’m sure once I tell all you’ll have no qualms about handing me over to the British Government, or maybe keeping me to yourself to experiment on – it was a chance I was willing to take when I dived in after you.”

Moving to stare out of the window John began his tale.

“My parents were not biologically related to me, nothing unusual you might think, but you will find no record of my fostering or adoption, and the record of my ‘birth’ while my parents were working abroad is somewhat dubious to say the least.”

“A foundling? Or whatever they call it these days?”

This raised a genuinely amused smile from the older man.

“Foundling – yes, that covers it. Mum was a marine biologist, dad worked in submersible technology. Together they were working on some unusual life-forms that had been discovered in the waters near the Gulf of Corinth.” John paused for a moment, and then shook his head. “This is going to sound like a bad science fiction film, but Mum always told me there was a bad storm, and the following morning there I was, a baby no more than a month old, lying on the beach half submerged in the sea.”

“So why didn’t they take you to the authorities? Surely a lost baby….”

“Sherlock. Turn off the detective for a minute and think about what I’m trying to say. In fact no, let me show you – come with me.”

Slamming his cup down on the coffee table he walked through to the bathroom and turned on the shower. By the time Sherlock had caught up with him John was naked, throwing the last of his soiled clothes into a heap in the corner.

“Just one thing.” There was a plea in his eyes and voice as John met Sherlock’s enquiring gaze. “Don’t hand me over. If you must experiment, then so be it, but please….I’ll die if you put me in the hands of a Government scientific facility.”

“John? Why would I?”

There was no reply, instead the other man stepped into the shower, his face turned up to feel the full force of the water, and in front of Sherlock’s amazed eyes a series of slashes, gills, opened up on John’s neck, and the webs he thought he’d seen earlier on John’s hand grew once more, as did the webs on his toes.

Swallowing hard, he took in the gleaming bronzed skin, the slight rippling of the gills as the water cascaded down John’s neck, the solid yet very human body that had pressed against him under the Thames.

The sound of a watery laugh shook Sherlock out of his daze, and he looked up to see John smiling down at him.

“Join me?”

“Join you?” suddenly Sherlock felt incredibly stupid.

“Well, you can use it as an excuse to get the muck from the river out of your skin, or you can act on that urge to touch….”

Not needing any further urging the young man all but ripped his clothing off, stepping up into the shower, crowding against the smaller man.

The webbing gave a sensual feel to the hands that massaged shampoo into his curly hair, and lavished soapy lather over his skin. As John reached around to wash down Sherlock’s back he quite unashamedly pressed his aching arousal against the taller man’s thigh, sliding his hands down to cup and squeeze firm buttocks.

“But you’re not gay.” Sherlock gasped as his body responded to John’s ministrations.

“I’m not entirely human – there’s a difference.”

Sherlock thrust forward, digging his own hardened cock into his friend’s groin.

“I…I want…”

“Not here though,” John stepped back to let the water rinse them both. “It requires a degree of practice, like fucking a fish….” He dissolved into giggles, and the taller man joined in, holding himself up against the wall of the shower.

Ducking under his arm, John climbed out of the shower and started to dry himself off, watching Sherlock as he watched the gills slowly close up, and the webs slowly retract.

“Come.” It was a seductive whisper, and it was all Sherlock needed to hear.

xXx

On all fours on Sherlock’s bed, John rocked back against his flatmate/friend/lover; his head flung back and twisted to one side as he tried catch the lips that were teasing across his cheek and down the line of his jaw.

A deep throated snicker rumbled through the chest pressed against his back, and John whined in frustration.

“Jesus Sherlock, please…..”

“What? You want this?” Thrusting harder and deeper he knew he was pushing them both to the edge, but he no longer cared, they both wanted this.

Lifting his body slightly, his long slender fingers grasped John’s hips as his own snapped forward, driving deeper until with an unearthly cry John came, and Sherlock’s own release followed seconds later.

Sated and shaking they separated, crawling under the duvet and pulling into each other’s arms. The silence drifted for a long while, wrapping comfortably around them.

Just as John was dozing off, Sherlock lifted himself up onto one elbow and gazed thoughtfully down at him.

“How come I didn’t know?”

“You suspected though, didn’t you – if only the odd behaviour in the shower, or the fact that I love it when it rains….”

“Until recently, no. I had put it down to relief at being back from the heat in Afghanistan.” He looked thoughtful. “You did serve in Afghanistan?”

“I did, and I was always considered a bit odd because I kept myself to myself, but they put it down to me being a doctor, and needing to be always ‘at my best’ to operate safely under pressure.”

“So why give yourself away? You know my brother is to all intents and purposes the British Government, yet despite your fear of being taken and caged by that very institution, you gave yourself away to save my life.”

“Yes, so I did. But you know why, you hear it every time we are seen together, every time one of Lestrade’s team wants to bait me instead of you.”

“But you ….oh! Of course, you ‘doth protest too much’” he quoted softly, smiling down at the blond head on the pillow next to him.

“What will you do?” John didn’t smile, kept his face deliberately blank.

“Nothing. Nothing at all. Your secret is safe with me.” He lowered his head once more for a deep and passionate kiss, before snuggling down once more.

Listening to the steady breathing of the man held close in his arms, Sherlock opened his mouth to ask one last question but John was already answering.

“Helike. At least, that’s what Mum thought, although no-one really knows if it existed – and I don’t intend to put them right.”

“Not Atlantis?”

John chuckled as he wriggled deeper into the other man’s embrace.

“Doesn’t exist, - never did…..” the soft voice trailed off into the gentle snuffles of sleep, and with a grin Sherlock closed his eyes and prepared to follow suit.

 

 


End file.
